The Bunsby Papers (second series): Irish Echoes Read online

  CHAPTER III.

  Our selfish pleasures multiply amain, But then their countless progeny is pain.

  We left the great Squire Bulworthy, preparing to astonish theneighborhood, which he assuredly succeeded in doing, but not in a styleat all creditable or satisfactory to himself.

  It would appear, indeed, as though the hearty, but uncharitable wish ofthe irritated cobbler, was curiously prophetic, for, before thepurse-proud couple had achieved the half of their accustomed promenade,Mr. Bulworthy's extremities were suddenly and unceremoniously fastenedupon by an unusually severe gripe of that enemy to active exercise--thegout. So sharp was the pain, that the Squire roared out right lustily,and executed such a variety of absurd contortions that he became anobject of intense amusement, rather than sympathy, to the vagabondportion of the neighborhood.

  There being no such extemporaneous means of transit as hacks, or"hansoms," attainable, there was nothing for it but to suffer; so,leaning heavily upon a couple of stray Samaritans, whose commiserationwas warmly stimulated by the promised shilling, he managed, by slow andagonizing efforts, to shuffle home, attended by his silent andunsympathizing spouse.

  After having undergone the excruciating process of unbooting--anoperation whose exquisite sensations are known only to theinitiated--he screamed for his universal panacea, whisky-punch. Thematerials were brought in an incredibly short space of time, forBulworthy was murderous in his gouty spells. Half a dozen stifftumblers were disposed of with Hibernian celerity, and the hurriedhousehold began to congratulate itself upon a prospect of quiet. Vainhope! "dingle, dingle, ding!" went the big bell at the Squire's elbow.Up started, simultaneously, Barney and Mary from the dish of comfortthey were laying themselves out to indulge in down stairs--in theireagerness, tumbling into each other's arms. Barney rushed up thestairway, while Mary listened--as Marys always do, when there'sanything interesting going on--receiving, however, in this instance,ample reward for such a breach of good manners, being nearly prostratedby a book flung at Barney's head, to hasten his exit, by the sufferingSquire. What the missile had only half done, Barney finished; for,taking the kitchen-stairs at a slide, he came plump against thepartially-stunned listener, and down they both rolled comfortably tothe bottom. However, as there were no bones broken, the only damagebeing what Mary called, "a dent in her head," they soon pickedthemselves up again.

  "Well," says Mary, "how is he now?"

  "Oh, murdher alive, don't ax me," replied Barney, rubbing his bruises,"it's my belief that there never was sich a cantankerous ould chickensence the world was hatched. It's a composin' draft that he'sschreechin' for now, as av a gallion of punch, strong enough to slideon, wasn't composin'."

  In due time, he had his "composin' draft," which, as it contained apretty considerable dose of laudanum, sufficed, together with his otherpotations, to lull the pain somewhat, and give him comparative quiet;this was a famous opportunity for Mrs. Bulworthy, who immediatelyproceeded to "improve" it.

  "Now, Pether, dear," said she, with an attempt to modulate hersaw-cutting voice into something approaching to tenderness, which was afailure. "Oh! think upon the situation of your soul, and look over oneof these comforting works."

  Peter groaned inwardly, but said nothing.

  "Grace," she went on, "is never denied, even to the most hardenedestsinner."

  Peter threw his head back and closed his eyes, in the forlorn hope thatshe would respect his simulated slumber; but she was not a woman torespect anything, when her "vocation" was strong on her.

  "It's criminal in you, Peter," she shouted, "to neglect your spiritualstate; suppose you were to die, and it's my belief you will, for you'relooking dreadful, what a misery it would be to me; I'd never forgivemyself; oh! Pether, Pether, do read this true and beautiful descriptionof the place of torment you're a blindly plunging your sowl into."

  This was too much for the already tortured sinner. "Get out!" heroared. "Don't bother; there's a time for all things, you indiscreetand unnatural apostle of discomfortableness, what do you worry me fornow, when you see me enjoyin' such a multiplication of bodilysufferings?"

  "Because," said she, coolly; "it's the only time that I can hope tomake an impression upon your hardened heart; it's my duty, not only asyour wife, but as a member of the society for the evangelizing the homeheathen; of which heathen, my dear, I have the word of my piousassociates, you are an outrageous example; therefore, it is my missionto do all I can to bring about your regeneration."

  "Murdher, murdher! if I could only use my feet," groaned Bulworthy,with the suppressed anger boiling in his face.

  "Ah? but you can't," replied the home comfort, as she quietly removedeverything portable from within the reach of the sufferer's arm, andsettling herself in rigid implacability, prepared to do battle with theevil one.

  "Since you won't use your bodily senses for your soul's advantage,"said she, solemnly, "I will, myself, peruse these pages of admonition."

  Now, there cannot be a doubt but that the work Mrs. Bulworthy preparedto read, was an excellent one, written by an excellent person, anddistributed for a most excellent purpose; but, to say the least, it wasvery injudicious in the absorbingly-pious lady to exhibit so muchconcern for the immortal part of poor Bulworthy, altogether overlookingthe mortal anguish he was at the present moment enduring.

  At all events, _he_ thought so, for, what with the pain and the rage,he commenced a series of bellowings, in the expectation that his othertormentor would be recalled to the necessity of directing her mind fromthe future, to the suffering before her; but, no, not a bit of it; thelouder he roared, the shriller she read, being a contest, as sheimagined, between the fierce obstinacy of the demon within him, and theefficacy of her ministration; on she went, inflexibly, in the prolongedcadence of the conventicle, never ceasing or averting her strong eyefrom the tract, until she had finished its perusal. Not a word of itdid he, _would_ he hear, for, with yelling occasionally, and stoppinghis ears at intervals, the blessed communication might have beenwritten in its original Sanscrit, for all the good it did him.

  However, she had done her duty, and was satisfied. "Temper, temper,Pether," she ejaculated, as he heaved a groan of impatience from one ofthe twinges. "Suffer patiently; it is good for the flesh to bemortified; think of the worse that is to come."

  "Oh! you're a comforter if ever there was one," sighed the Squire. "Howthe mischief can I be patient with a coal of fire on every toe of me?It's mighty aisy for thim that doesn't feel it to keep gabblin' aboutpatience. I'll roar if I like; it does me good to swear at themurdherin' thing, and I will, too."

  Whereupon, he let fly a volley of epithets, not the very choicest inthe vernacular, which had at least one good effect, for it sent thedomestic missionary flying out of the room, tracts and all, utterlyhorrified at the outburst of impiety; he firing a parting shot or twoafter her, loaded with purely personal charges of not overcomplimentary character.

  It was just at this moment that his opposite neighbor, the poorcobbler, having arrived at the most comforting part of his reflections,was indulging in one of his jolliest songs, the merry sound of whichpenetrated to the apartment of the suffering rich man, filling hisheart with envy.

  "Listen to that," he grunted, swaying backward and forward from theintensity of the pain. "What's the use av all my money; there's thatblaggard cobbler, without a rap to bless himself with, and the song'snever out of his vagabone throat; oh, murdher! if I wouldn't give everyshillin' that I'm worth in the world to change conditions with thechirpin' schemer."

  In a short time, however, the composing drafts, spirituous andotherwise, began to do their work; a drowsy sensation crept over him,and he dropped into an unquiet slumber.

  When he awoke again, which was instantly, as he thought, what was hissurprise to behold an extraordinary-looking sprite riding upon hisworst foot. The thing was dressed like a jockey, cap, jacket, breeches,and boots, the latter being furnished with a pair of needles instead ofspurs; but with such a comical face th
at Bulworthy would have laughedheartily at its funny expression, except that the sight of thoseominous goads effectually checked all thoughts of risibility.

  "Who the devil are you? Get off o' my toe, you impudent littlescoundrel," said the Squire, "or I'll fling a pill-box at you."

  "Bless you, that would be no use," piped the diminutive jock, settlinghimself in his saddle.

  "Move, I say, or bang goes this bottle of doctor's stuff right in yereye."

  "Fire away," says the imp, with a little bit of a laugh, like thesqueak of a mouse, "I don't fear any of your doctor's bedevilment."

  "What brings you here, anyway?" demanded Bulworthy. He was now out ofpain, and consequently waxing arrogant.

  "You," squeaked the little rider.

  "It's a lie. I never invited you."

  "Oh, yes, you did, and moreover, I must say, treated me like a prince;boarded and lodged me gloriously."

  "Pooh! you're a fool. Where did I lodge you?"

  "Here, in your foot," said the little devil, with a grin, accompanyingthe observation with the slightest touch of the needle; enough,however, to extort a yell from the Squire. "What do you think of that,my hero?" the jockey continued. "It will be better for you to keep acivil tongue in that foolish head of yours."

  "Oh, I will! I will!" groaned Bulworthy. "If you'll only obleege me bydismountin', I'll promise anything."

  "Oh, yes, that's mighty likely," said the imp, "after being asked hereto amuse myself. A pretty sort of a host you are."

  "If you'll believe me, there's some mistake, sir, indeed there is,"said Bulworthy, apologetically, "I don't remember ever havin' had thehonor of your acquaintance."

  "You don't, don't you; then, here goes, to put you in mind, youforgetful old savage;" with that, he commenced a series of equestrianmanoeuvres with the Squire's intractable toe, now sawing with thediminutive chifney bit, now tickling the sides with a slender, but verycutting kind of a whip, finishing up his exercises by plunging bothspurs into the flesh, making the tortured limb jump like a Galwayhunter over a stone wall.

  "Stop! stop!" roared the sufferer, while the perspiration rained fromhis forehead like a shower-bath.

  "You know me now, do you, eh?"

  "Yes, yes," gasped the Squire. "I'll never forget you again--never,never!"

  "Will you be civil?"--a slight touch of the needle.

  "Oh, murdher! yes."

  "And temperate?"--another small puncture.

  "I will, I will."

  "Very well, then. I'll not only dismount, as I'm a little tired, butI'll give you a word or two of good advice." So saying, the littlejockey got out of his seat, put his saddle on his shoulders, and havingwith great difficulty clambered up the flannel precipice of Bulworthy'sleg, managed, with the assistance of his waistcoat buttons, to mountupon the table, where, sitting down upon a pill-box, he crossed hislegs, and leisurely switching his top-boots, regarded the Squire with alook of intense cunning.

  "Well, only to think," said Bulworthy to himself, "that such a weenything as that could give a man such a heap of oneasiness; a fella thatI could smash with my fist as I would a fly: may I never get up fromthis if I don't do it, and then may-be I'll get rid of the murdherin'torment altogether."

  With that, he suddenly brought his great hand down on the table with abang that, as he supposed, exterminated jockey, pill-box, and all.

  "Ha, ha!" he roared, "there's an end to you, my fine fella."

  "Not a bit of it," squealed the little ruffian; "what do you say tothis?" he continued, as he flourished one of the top-boots over hishead, and buried the spur through the Squire's finger, fastening itfirmly to the table. "See what you got for your wicked intentions, andthat ain't the worst of it neither, for I'm going to serve that elegantbig thumb of yours the same way. But I'll take my time about it, forthere's no fear of your hands ever stirring from that spot until Ilike." So saying, the tantalizing fiend made several fierce attempts totransfix the doomed member, each time just grazing the skin with thesharp needle. At last he drove it right up to the heel, and there thetwo boots stuck, while the little blackguard danced the "Foxhunter'sjig," in his stocking-feet, cutting pigeon-wings among the pill-boxes,like a professor.

  Bulworthy now roared louder than ever, vainly endeavoring to free histortured hand from its strange imprisonment, and the more he roared,the more his tormentor grinned, and cut capers about the table.

  "Oh, pull out them thunderin' spurs," cried he, in agony. "This isworse than all; mercy, mercy! Misther jockey, I beg your pardon forwhat I did; it was the drink; there's whisky in me."

  "I know that well enough," chirped the grinning imp. "If there wasn't,I couldn't have the power over you that you see."

  "Oh, won't you look over it this oncet? I'll be on me Bible oath Iwon't offend you again."

  "Are you in earnest this time?"

  "Bad luck attend me if I'm not."

  "Well, then, I'll trust you, though you don't deserve it," replied thelittle schemer, and, after two or three tugs, he succeeded in pullingout one of the spurs. "Do you feel easier?" inquired he, with a grin.

  "It's like getting half-way out of purgatory," said the Squire, with asigh of relief. "There's a fine fella, lug out the other, won't you?"

  "I must make some conditions first."

  "Let them be short, for gracious sake!"

  "First and foremost, are you going to be quiet and reasonable?"

  "I am, I am!"

  "Secondly, are you going to pay me for the trouble I've had?"

  "Whatever you ask, only be quick about it."

  "It won't tax you much, you have only to make over to me all thebottles and jars you have in the house."

  "Take them, and welcome."

  "If you'll promise me not to meddle with them, I'll leave them in yourkeeping, only they're mine, remember."

  "Every drop," cried the Squire, eagerly. "I won't touch anothermouthful."

  "That's all right; you keep your word and I'll keep mine; there, youmay have the use of your fist once more," he continued, as he pluckedout the other spur, giving the released hand a parting kick thatthrilled through every joint.

  "And now," said he, as he pulled on his tiny boots, "I have a word ortwo more to say to you; you made a foolish wish just now; that you'dlike to change places with that miserable cobbler over the way; are youstill of the same way of thinking?"

  "Should I have your companionship there," inquired Bulworthy.

  "Certainly not; he couldn't afford to keep me," replied the gout-fiend,contemptuously.

  "Then, without meanin' the slightest offence to you, my little friend,"said the other, "it wouldn't grieve me much to get rid of youracquaintance at any sacrifice, even to the disgust of walking into thatrascally cobbler's shoes. I'm only afraid that, clever as you are, youcan't manage that for me."

  "Don't be quite so sure," replied the little jockey, with a knowingwink, amusing himself by every now and then tickling up Bulworthy'sfingers with his sharp whip, every stroke of which seemed to cut him tothe marrow. "Who can tell but that the poor, ignorant devil would liketo change places with _you_; if so, I can do the job for ye both in ajiffey: more, betoken, here he comes, so that we can settle the affairat once."

  At that instant, the door of Bulworthy's apartment flew open, as fromthe effect of a sudden and strong gust of wind, while he, althoughseeing nothing, distinctly heard a slight rustling, and felt thatpeculiar sensation one receives at the entrance of persons into a roomwhile not looking in their direction.

  "I see no one," said the Squire; "'twas but a blast of wind."

  "_I_ do," curtly replied the little jockey, and then proceeded to holdan interesting confidential chat with the invisibilities; in a fewmoments, Bulworthy distinguished the jolly voice of Dan, the cobbler, alittle jollier than usual; indicating the high state of his spiritualtemperament also, by swaying to and fro against the balusters, makingthem creak loudly in his uncertain progress; at last, with a tipsy "Godsave all here," he lumbered into the room,
tried to clutch at a chair,but, optically miscalculating his distance, overshot the mark, andtumbled head-long upon the floor.

  "You dirty, drunken rapscallion," cried Bulworthy, getting into atowering rage, from which, however, he was quickly recalled by a wickedlook from the imp, and a threatening movement towards the dreadedtop-boots and spurs.

  "Listen, and say nothing until you are spoken to," said the littlechap, as grand as you please.

  "Not a word," replied the cowed Squire.

  "Now, Daniel, my friend, I want to have a talk with you." The Squirestarted with astonishment; he could have sworn that he heard his ownvoice; but the big sounds proceeded from the lips of the little chap onthe table beside him.

  "Wid all the veins of my heart, Squire, jewel," replied Dan's voice,though Dan's mouth never opened at all, and Bulworthy was looking himstraight in the face.

  "You are not satisfied with your condition in life," continued thevoice.

  "You never spoke a truer word nor that," replied Dan's invisible proxy.

  "Neither am I."

  "More fool you."

  "Would you change places with me?"

  "Indeed, an' I would if I had the chance; how would you like to be inmine?"

  "It's just what I long for."

  Thus far, the conversation was carried on in the voices of the Squireand the cobbler; but now they were both amazed at hearing bellowed out,in sounds like the roar of a cataract when you stop your earsoccasionally:

  "Blind and dissatisfied mortals, have your desire; let each take theshape and fill the station of the other, never to obtain your originalform and condition until both are as united in the wish to returnthereto as you are now to quit them."

  A terrific thunderclap burst overhead, stunning them both for a fewminutes, and, when its last reverberation died away in the distance,the little jockey had disappeared, all supernatural sounds had ceased.The sentient part of the discontented Squire found itself inhabitingthe mortal form of the cobbler, prone on the floor, hopelessly andhelplessly drunk, while the unhappy Dan appeared in the portly form,and suffered the gouty pangs of the rich Mr. Bulworthy.